


the strength so strong

by zjofierose



Series: YoI Grand Prix Week 2020 [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aftercare, Anonymous Sex, Background Poly, Background Relationships, Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Communication, Consensual Non-Consent, M/M, Otabek Altin Has a Big Dick, POV Victor Nikiforov, Porn with Feelings, Prior Consent, Rough Oral Sex, Sexual Roleplay, contextual dub-con, implied/background OT4, implied/background otabek/yuri, implied/background victor/yuri, implied/background victor/yuuri, star star verse, victor wants to see what it's like to be a real boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:02:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26396851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: One of the challenges with having been famous from early adolescence is that it is nearly impossible to be anonymous, and to make bad decisions, and to experience life as a normal person. But sometimes, if you find someone you trust to catch you, you can ask for them to let you fall.
Relationships: Otabek Altin/Victor Nikiforov
Series: YoI Grand Prix Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1916416
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16
Collections: YOI Grand Prix Week





	the strength so strong

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 2 of Grand Prix Week: zjo writes smut edition. Part of my OT4 star, star poly-verse series.
> 
> If you have any concerns about dub-con or mildly rough sex, please jump to the end and read the author's note there! But really, i think this is pretty mild overall.

“I’m willing to consider it,” Otabek says slowly, looking across his plate at Victor where they sit in the St. Petersburg apartment. Skate Canada is in a week, and they’re finalizing plans while Yura finishes some last minute packing for Skate America and Yuuri walks Makkachin. “But I’d like it if you could tell me why you want it.”

Victor sighs, shoving his hands into his hair and tipping his face back to stare at the ceiling as he thinks. The faint noise of traffic echoes up from the street below, and he can hear the sound of Darya Romanovna next door laughing at her soaps.

“It’s just,” he says after a long moment, still staring at the white-brushed plaster above him. “It’s just that everyone treats me either like I’m a priceless artifact or else some sort of impermeable super-human. And I’m neither.”

He drops his gaze from the ceiling to gauge Otabek’s reaction. 

“You can’t ask us not to act like we admire you, Vitka,” Otabek tells him, tone firm but cautious as he takes another bite of his lunch. 

Victor’s face softens, and he reaches out to cover Otabek’s hand with his own. “No. Not you. Never you. Just…” he gestures. “Everyone else. You know.”

Otabek considers him for a moment. “You want to be treated like a human. Not like an idol, not like a hero.”

Victor nods sharply in relief. “Yes. Exactly.”

“You want to be taken advantage of like a human,” Otabek says carefully, and Victor can feel the blush blooming in his cheeks even as he nods again.

“Yes,” he says, and closes his eyes.

\--

The man at the bar is gorgeous, and entirely Victor’s type. Solid muscle, built like a Soviet-era tank, but still athletic - still agile enough to be dangerous. His hair is thick and dark, his skin a light golden tan that Victor thinks will look so good next to his own blue-marbled translucence. He has a strong jaw and full lips, and his eyes look clever, thoughtful. Knowing. 

“ _ Hi _ ,” Victor greets in Russian, settling himself onto the barstool next to the stranger. He lets his body lean in, the scooped collar of his shirt hanging low across his clavicles. He’s been letting his hair grow out again recently, and it’s long enough now to sweep across the tops of his shoulders, a silver curtain that shines in the dim light of the bar. 

The man turns, and Victor bites his lip. He’s even more stunning up close than Victor had been prepared for. His leather jacket stretches across broad shoulders and his jeans are tight around his muscular thighs and narrow hips. He’s shorter than Victor, but he looks like he could toss Victor over his shoulder and just walk away. 

Victor loves it. 

“Hi,” the stranger says, and drags his dark eyes up and down the length of Victor’s body. It’s a look that’s as palpable as a touch, lingering and slow, and Victor can feel his face heat in response. He’s already had two drinks, and he wants this man to take him  _ apart _ . “Can I help you?”

Victor gives his most charming smile and leans an elbow on the sticky wooden surface of the bar, reaching out to flick a finger lightly against the half-empty glass in the man’s strong hand. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, his voice low and intimate.

“Hmm.” The man’s gaze is hot where it touches Victor’s skin, and he reaches up to stroke one finger down the curve of Victor’s cheek. The inside of his first knuckle is callused, and it catches on the edge of Victor’s jaw, the friction an enticing drag against his too-warm skin. Victor lets his eyes flutter closed, breathing in through his mouth as the man’s thumb comes to rest on the swell of his bottom lip. “Sure. You look rich enough for it,” the man says calmly, and Victor lets his mouth curl in a slow smile.

“I’m rich enough to get what I want,” he purrs, opening his eyes enough to catch a flicker of amusement in the man’s gaze. He raises one languid hand and flags the bartender down. “Two of what he’s having, please,” he says, switching to English, and the bartender nods, grabbing down the glasses.

“Rich enough to get yourself in trouble,” the stranger says, and spreads his knees on the barstool, sliding a hand in the back pocket of Victor’s sinfully tight jeans and grabbing his ass in a firm, proprietary grip. 

Victor bites down on a groan, but can’t suppress the shiver, and the smile on the other man’s face is predatory. The bartender sets the two glasses on the counter with a thunk, and Victor nods his appreciation, reaching out to drag them closer. They’re full of whisky, straight. He lifts one of them and tongues at the rim of it, letting the sharp taste of it burst into his mouth. 

“What can I call you?” Victor asks, and lets himself be pulled close by his hips until his groin is pressed against the barstool and one leather-coated arm is wrapped around his waist. The stance keeps him slightly off-balance, and he has to steady himself with a hand on the stranger’s broad shoulder. 

“What do you want to call me?” The hand in his back pocket is rubbing, pressing, and it feels so good, so illicit. One thumb hooks into his waistband and sneaks below it, hot and intrusive. He leans forward and throws his head back, downing the whisky in two large swallows that burn from his teeth to his sternum. 

“ _ Mine _ ,” he whispers into the curved shell of an ear, setting the glass back down without looking away. He bends down and presses his mouth to the other man’s lips, intending it to be a simple kiss, swift but full of promise. Suddenly there’s a hand in his hair that’s twisting it hard into a fist, and his head is being angled so that he’s titled back and down, his back arched in an almost painful curve as his mouth is taken by the stranger. Victor is forced to lean into the grip on his ass to keep from losing his footing as a tongue shoves its way into his mouth, licking the taste of the whisky from both his lips before freeing him with a suddenness that has him stumbling with unaccustomed clumsiness. 

The hand stays wrapped in his hair, so that even as Victor straightens, he can’t step away. The man’s eyes are gleaming and dangerous, dark and flashing with something determined. Victor licks his lips. 

“And what should I call you,” the man asks, using the grip he has in the hair at the base of Victor’s neck to tip his head side to side, examining the way the light hits him with open appreciation. “Beautiful?” There’s a teasing note in his voice, but also something darker that raises gooseflesh on Victor’s bare arms. He sets his hands on the leather-clad shoulders in front of him so they don’t tremble. 

“Vitya,” he says softly, and the man steps down from the stool onto the ground, grabbing his whisky and tossing it back without a thought before slamming the glass on the bar. “Just...Vitya.”

The stranger smiles. “Well, Just Vitya,” he says, giving Victor a little shake. “Why don’t we get out of here?”

\--

Victor lets himself be led out the back door and into the alley, dark except for a single light at the end where it opens onto the road. 

He’s distracted by the light rain that’s blowing through the night air, and nearly falls when he’s suddenly slammed against the side of the building. There’s a gloved hand behind his head that keeps it from cracking against the bricks, but there’s a mouth hard on his and he’s being pressed back sharply with a hand at his groin that’s cupping him roughly as he’s devoured. 

The groan he lets out is embarrassing in both its volume and sheer neediness, and there’s a chuckle at his ear. 

“You like that, don’t you?” Victor feels his cock go from half-chub to straining at his jeans as his knees are forced apart. “You like being pushed around.”

Victor just whines high in his throat, clutching at the firm chest in front of him for dear life. The heat of the man against him is intoxicating; warm, defined muscle and the scents of leather and aftershave making a heady contrast against the faintly misty rain and oil-slicked asphalt of the alley. 

“You don’t even know what you want, do you?” The hand at his groin grasps and pulls, and Victor shudders in its grip, knees going weak. The hand that’s still buried in the hair at the nape of his neck holds him in place, scruffed like a helpless creature by the strength of the man in front of him. There’s a soft note in the voice that’s a lifeline, and Victor closes his eyes, tipping his mouth down to be kissed.

He’s shoved to the ground instead, barely catching himself on his hands before he faceplants. His knees sting at the impact, and his teeth clack together as the force of the fall reverberates through him. He’s dizzy with the booze in his system, and his eyes are half-blinded when he opens them, struggling to parse the bright light in his periphery from the dark silhouette in front of him.

“You’ve got a beautiful mouth,” the man says, and unbuckles his belt. Victor can feel his mouth water instantly, leaning in without hesitation to rub his face against the tented briefs that emerge as the man unzips. “I bet it’ll look even prettier sucking my dick.”

Victor nods furiously, finding the presence of mind to grasp at the denim-clad thighs in front of him. He opens his mouth like a supplicant, tongue out to receive whatever this magnificent person in front of him chooses to bestow. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” the man breathes, slipping briefly into English as he pauses to take Victor in. His face is shadowed, but the touch of his eyes on Victor’s skin is just as real and just as burning as it was inside. The moment hangs between them, liminal and waiting, and Victor feels his lips start to form around a name, the word forming on his tongue. 

“ _ Vitya _ ,” he whispers reverently, then pulls out his dick and slaps Victor across the face with it. “Suck.”

The taste of him is clean and dry, the fuzz of cotton and the sharpness of fresh sweat blooming on Victor’s tongue as the man pushes into his mouth. Victor takes it, shoving down as far as he can on it until his drooling into the stranger’s thick, dark, pubic hair, moaning shamelessly as the head of it presses into the back of his throat.

“Fuck, Vitya.” The hand in the back of his hair tightens into a vise-like grasp, and begins to move him, dragging him onto and off of the cock in his mouth. He digs his fingers into the fabric covering the stranger’s thighs and gives himself over to the sensation of it, the drag of skin over his lips, the stretch of the back of his mouth, the opening of his throat as it’s thrust into. His nose bumps into the soft fur of the man’s belly, and he can feel himself begin to roll his hips into the air, unable to find any relief. 

The body above him shifts, and Victor whines at the loss of his rhythm, but sighs in pleasure as a leg steps between his knees, giving him a shin to rub himself against. Electricity bubbles through his veins at the sensation, and suddenly he’s right on the edge, his whole body shivering with the multiple sensations of the hard ground beneath him and the sharp pleasure coursing through him and the insistent press of the leg against his aching length. It all crests before he can even take a breath, and he’s abruptly coming hard and hot and wet into his jeans, shivering and gripping onto the thighs of the man in front of him. 

Victor stills, dizzy as he comes down, mouth slack around the cock still stuffed in it. 

“I’m not done with you,” the voice says, and Victor whines as his mouth is emptied. The emptiness is filled immediately with fingers as his face is tilted up and back through a grip on his chin and jaw. “Like this,” the man says, “mouth open. Don’t move.”

Victor manages not to nod in agreement, but simply closes his eyes, listening to the sound of the man’s hand on his cock sliding slickly up and down, faster and faster, until he comes with a soft groan all over Victor’s face. 

“There,” he says with a note of finality, and Victor hears the sound of him tucking himself away and zipping back up. The clank of a belt follows, and then there is a long silence, broken only by the sound of a car passing wetly in the street. Victor focuses on his breathing; in and out, in and out, slow like Yuuri has taught him, in through the nose and out through the mouth. He’s still drunk, but he’s coming back to himself, the cold night air making him shiver in his shirt sleeves.

“Vitya.” Otabek’s voice is so,  _ so _ gentle, and so is his touch as he wipes Victor’s face with his handkerchief, then crandles Victor’s head in his hands. Victor blinks his eyes open to stare up into Otabek’s serious, beloved face. “Let’s get you back.”

\---

Otabek wraps a towel around him when he steps out of the hotel shower, soft and warm, and Victor lets him carefully dry each limb in turn before he hangs the towel on the back of the door and helps him into the complimentary terry-cloth robe. 

“Sit,” Otabek says, guiding him to the closed lid of the toilet. Victor sits, warm and content and just a little floaty as the last of the alcohol works its way out of his system. Otabek pushes aside the edge of the robe and frowns at the red marks on Victor’s knees.

“Bekasha,” he says, taking one of Otabek’s hands in his own, “don’t fuss. I get worse on the ice at least once a week.”

Otabek just hums neutrally, turning Victor’s hand over to examine the scrapes on his palm. He turns it one way and then the other, then sets it on Victor’s knee and crosses to his toiletry bag where he fishes out an antiseptic spray. 

“Beka…,” Victor complains, but Otabek just raises an eyebrow and lifts his hand, spraying the cool mist over the skin of both palms.

“Ice is sterile,” he says, putting the small bottle back in his kit. “Asphalt is not.”

Victor closes his mouth, watching as Otabek moves around the room. He’d showered before Victor, a quick rinse while Victor stripped himself out of his clothes and drank some water, stumbling happily around the room and shooting a quick  _ good morning _ text to their absent partners. Otabek had emerged soon after, ushering Victor into the showering stall and shutting the door behind him. 

“Bekasha,” Victor says, waiting until Otabek sets his toothbrush down and turns. He holds out his arms, and Otabek steps willingly into Victor’s embrace, lets Victor pull him close until he’s standing between Victor’s knees, a near mirror of their positions at the bar barely an hour ago. Victor shoves up the bottom of Otabek’s t-shirt and rests his cheek on the bare skin beneath, letting the rhythm of Otabek’s breathing gently raise and lower his head.

“Thank you.” He feels Otabek deflate slightly in his embrace. “It was exactly what I wanted.”

Otabek’s hand comes up to stroke through Victor’s hair, snagging briefly, then gliding slowly to the ends. “Come to bed, Vitka,” he says, pulling free, and Victor follows.

\--

“Did you enjoy it?” Victor asks a few moments later in the safety of the warm dark. They’re both off schedule with their body clocks, but the best way to deal with jetlag is to force the local schedule, and so here they are in bed even if it’s early morning in Russia. 

Otabek thinks. It’s a nearly audible process, and one of Victor’s favorite things about him. With Yura, it’s always the second answer that’s the most true, because the first is just whatever instinctive response happens to come out of his mouth. With Yuuri, the first answer is the most honest, but not necessarily the most useful, because what he wants isn’t always what he needs, and what he’s willing to do isn’t always what he wants. Otabek, though, is considered and deliberate without being slow or avoidant. If you ask him a question, you will get an answer, and it will be well-thought and firm. 

“I enjoyed that you enjoyed it,” he says eventually, and Victor nods against his pillow. “I don’t think it’s something I would want for myself.”

“I think once was enough for me, at least for a while,” Victor rustles around, finally settling with his head in the curve of Otabek’s shoulder. “Thank you for indulging me.”

Otabek’s arm comes around Victor’s shoulders, holding him close to Otabek’s warm bulk. 

“Әрине, менің махаббатым,” he murmurs, and presses a kiss to the top of Victor’s head. “Now sleep.”

**Author's Note:**

> Content notes! I think this is clear in the fic, but just in case - Victor asks Otabek at the beginning if he would be willing to role-play an anonymous, kind of rough, bar hook-up while they're in a foreign country and less likely to be recognized/papped. He wants to see what it's like to have that kind of experience, and has never really had the chance, and he trusts Otabek to handle it (and him). This is not D/s; it's also not humiliation. They don't necessarily discuss exactly what will happen, but limits are agreed on for both of them, and full prior consent from both is implied. 
> 
> Comments are love, uwu, plz love me! Or scream at me on twitter (@zjofierose) or [in discord!](https://discord.gg/TYMxcAB)


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